The Christian Slave Read online

  The

  Christian Slave A Drama,

  Founded on a portion of

  UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

  Dramatized by

  Harriet Beecher Stowe Expressly for the Readings of

  MRS. MARY E. WEBB. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPANY,

  No. 13 Winter Street.

  1855 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

  PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPANY,

  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts.

  Stereotyped by

  HOBART & Robbins,

  New England type and Stereotype Foundry,

  Boston. THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE

  Air:

  "Ole Kintuck in de arternoon."

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. -- UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

  A Table with cups, saucers, &c.; AUNT CHLOE cooking at the fire; UNCLE TOM and

  GEO. SHELBY at a table, with slate between them; MOSE and PETE playing with baby

  in the corner. Geo. Shelby.

  Ha! ha! ha! Uncle Tom! Why, how funny! -- brought up the tail of your g wrong

  side out -- makes a q, don't you see?

  Uncle Tom.

  La sakes! now, does it?

  Geo. S.

  Why yes. Look here now [writing rapidly], that's g, and that's q--that's g --

  that's q. See now?

  Aunt Chloe.

  How easy white folks al'ays does things! The way he can write now! and read,

  too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to us--it's mighty

  interestin'!

  Geo. Sh.

  But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry. Is n't that cake in the skillet

  almost done?

  Aunt C.

  Mose done, Mas'r George; brownin' beautiful--a real lovely brown. Ah! let me

  alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t' other day, jes to larn

  her, she said. "O, go way, Missis," said I; "it really hurts my feelin's, now,

  to see good vittles spilt dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side--no shape at all;

  no more than my shoe; go way!" Here you, Mose and Pete, get out de way, you

  niggers! Get away, Polly, honey,--mammy'll give her baby some fin, by-and-by.

  Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old

  man, and I'll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle-full of cakes on

  your plates in less dan no time.

  Geo. S.

  They wanted me to come to supper in the house, but I knew what was what too well

  for that, Aunt Chloe.

  Aunt C.

  So you did--so you did, honey; you know'd your old aunty'd keep the best for

  you. O, let you alone for dat--go way!

  Geo. S.

  Now for the cake.

  Aunt C.

  La bless you! Mas'r George, you would n't be for cuttin' it wid dat ar great

  heavy knife? Smash all down--spile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I've got a

  thin old knife I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see!--comes apart light as a

  feather. Now eat away; you won't get anything to beat dat ar.

  Geo. S.

  Tom Lincoln says that their Jinny is a better cook than you.

  Aunt C.

  Dem Lincons an't much count no way; I mean, set along side our folks. They's

  'spectable folks enough in a plain way; but as to gettin' up anything in style,

  they don't begin to have a notion on't. Set Mas'r Lincon, now, alongside Mas'r

  Shelby. Good Lor! and Missis Lincon--can she kinder sweep it into a room like my

  missis,--so kinder splendid, yer know? O, go way ! don't tell me nothin' of dem

  Lincons!

  Geo. S.

  Well, though, I've heard you say that Jinny way a pretty fair cook.

  Aunt C.

  So I did. I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin', Jinny'll do; make a good

  pone o' bread--bile her taters far,--her corn cakes is n't extra, not extra,

  now, Jinny's corn cakes is n't; but then they's far. But, Lor, come to de higher

  branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes pies--sartin she does; but what

  kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth and

  lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be

  married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good

  friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go 'long, Mas'r George! Why, I

  shouldn't sleep a wink for a week if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey

  wan't no 'count 't all.

  Geo. S.

  I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice.

  Aunt C.

  Thought so!--did n't she! Thar she was, showing 'em as innocent--ye see, it's

  jest here, Jinny don't know. Lor, the family an't nothing! She can't be spected

  to know! 'Ta'nt no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, you doesn't know half yer

  privileges in yer family and bringin' up!

  [Sighs and rolls her eyes.] Geo. S.

  I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie-and-pudding privileges. Ask Tom

  Lincoln if I don't crow over him every time I meet him.

  Aunt C. [Sitting back in her chair.]

  Ya! ha! ha! And so ye telled Tom, did ye? Ha! ha! ha! O Lor--what young mas'r

  will be up to! Ha! ha! ha! Ye crowed over Tom! Ho! ho! ho! Lor, Mas'r George, if

  ye would n't make a hornbug laugh.

  Geo. S.

  Yes, I says to him, "Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe's pies; they're

  the right sort," says I.

  Aunt C.

  Pity, now, Tom could n't. Ye oughter jest ax him here to dinner some o' these

  times, Mas'r George; it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye

  oughtenter fur to feel 'bove nobody on 'coun t yet privileges, 'cause all our

  privileges is gi'n to us; we ought al'ays to 'member dat ar.

  Geo. S.

  Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week; and you do your prettiest,

  Aunt Chloe, and we'll make him stare. Won't we make him eat so he won't get over

  it for a fortnight?

  Aunt C.

  Yes, yes--sartin; you'll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat

  ar great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner to General Knox? I and Missis,

  we come pretty near quarrellin' about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies

  sometimes, I don't know; but sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o'

  'sponsibility on 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder "seris" and taken up, dey

  takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin'! Now, Missis, she

  wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and finally I got

  kinder sarcy, and, says I, "Now, Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white

  hands o' yourn, with long fingers, and all a sparklin' with rings, like my white

  lilies when de dew's on 'em; and look at my great black stumpin' hands. Now,

  don't ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de pie-crust, and you to

  stay in de parlor?" Dar! I was jist so sarcy, Mas'r George.

  Geo. S.

  And what did mother say?

  Aunt C.

  Say?--why, she kinder larfed in her eyes--dem great handsome eyes o' hern; and

  says she, "Well, Aunt
Chloe, I think you are about in the right on 't," says

  she; and she went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for

  bein' so sarcy; but dar's whar 't is--I can't do nothin' with ladies in de

  kitchen!

  Geo. S.

  Well, you made out well with that dinner--I remember everybody said so.

  Aunt C.

  Didn't I? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat bery day? and didn't I see

  de Gineral pass his plate three times for some more dat bery pie? and, says he,

  "You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby." Lor! I was jest fit fur ter

  split.

  And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is. Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of

  one of de bery fustest families in Ole Virginny! He knows what's what, now, as

  well as I do--de Gineral. Ye see, there's pints in all pies, Mas'r George; but

  tan't everybody knows what they is, or fur to be. But the Gineral, he knows; I

  knew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he knows what de pints is!

  Geo. S. [Throwing pieces of cake to the children.]

  Here you Mose, Pete--you want some, don't you? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some

  cakes.

  Aunt C. [Feeding baby, while Mose and Pete roll on the floor and pull baby's

  toes.]

  O, go long, will ye?

  [Kicking them.]

  Can't ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye? Stop dat ar, now, will ye?

  Better mind yerselves, or I'll take ye down a button-hole lower, when Mas'r

  George is gone!

  Uncle Tom.

  La, now! they are so full of tickle all the while, they can't behave

  theirselves.

  Aunt C.

  Get along wid ye! ye'll all stick together. Go long to de spring and wash

  yerselves. Mas'r George! did ye ever see such aggravatin' young uns? Wall, now,

  I hopes you's done. Here, now, you Mose and Pet e--ye got to go to bed, mighty

  sudden, I tell ye. Cause we's gwine to have meetin' here.

  Mose and Pete.

  O, mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin'--meetin's is so curis.

  We likes 'em.

  Geo. S. [Pushing the trundle-bed.]

  La! Aunt Chloe, let 'em sit up.

  Aunt C.

  Well, mebbe 't will do 'em some good. What we's to to for cheers, now I declare

  I don't know.

  Mose.

  Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week.

  Aunt C.

  You go long! I'll boun' you pulled 'em out; some o' your shines.

  Mose.

  Well, it'll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!

  Pete.

  Den Uncle Peter mus' n't sit in it, 'cause he al'ays hitches when he gets a

  singing. He hitched pretty nigh cross de room t'udder night.

  Mose.

  Good Lor! get him in it den; and then he'd begin, "Come, saints and sinners,

  hear me tell," and then down he'll go.

  [Mimicking.] Aunt C.

  Come, now, be decent, can't ye? An't yer shamed yerself? Well, ole man, you'll

  have to tote in them ar bar'ls yerself.

  Mose. [Aside to Pete.]

  Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's Mas'r George was reading 'bout in de

  good book--dey never fails.

  Pete. [Aside to Mose.]

  I'm sure one on 'em caved in last week, and let 'em all down in de middle of de

  singin'; dat ar was failin', warn't it?

  Aunt C.

  Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he'll stay to read for us;

  'pears like 't will be so much more interestin'.

  SCENE II. -- A Boudoir. Evening. MR. and MRS. SHELBY.

  Mrs. Shelby. [Arranging her ringlets at the mirror.]

  By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to our

  dinner-table to-day?

  Mr. Shelby. [Lounging on an ottoman, with newspaper.]

  Haley is his name.

  Mrs. S.

  Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?

  Mr. S.

  Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with last time I was at

  Natchez.

  Mrs. S.

  And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine here, eh?

  Mr. S.

  Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him.

  Mrs. S.

  Is he a negro-trader?

  Mr. S.

  Why, my dear, what put that into your head?

  Mrs. S.

  Nothing--only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a great worry, crying and

  taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that she heard him make

  an offer for her boy--the ridiculous little goo se!

  Mr. S.

  She did, eh? It will have to come out. As well now as ever.

  [Aside.] Mrs. S.

  I told Eliza that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had

  anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to

  sell any of our people--least of all, to such a fellow.

  Mr. S.

  Well, Emily, so I have always felt and said; but the fact is, my business lies

  so that I cannot get on without. I shall have to sell some of my hands.

  Mrs. S.

  To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.

  Mr. S.

  I am sorry to say that I am. I've agreed to sell Tom.

  Mrs. S.

  What! our Tom? that good, faithful creature! been your faithful servant from a

  boy! O, Mr. Shelby! and you have promised him his freedom, too--you and I have

  spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe anything now; I can

  believe now that you could sell little Harry, poor Eliza's only child!

  Mr. S.

  Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom and Harry

  both; and I don't know why I am to be rated as if I were a monster for doing

  what every one does every day.

  Mrs. S.

  But why, of all others, chose these? Why sell them of all on the place, if you

  must sell at all?

  Mr. S.

  Because they will bring the highest sum of any--that's why. I could chose

  another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would

  suit you any better.

  Mrs. S.

  The wretch!

  Mr. S.

  Well, I did n't listen to it a moment, out of regard to your feelings, I would

  n't; so give me some credit.

  Mrs. S.

  My dear, forgive me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared

  for this; but surely you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures.

  Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr.

  Shelby, that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.

  Mr. S.

  I know it--I dare say; but what's the use of all this? I can't help myself.

  Mrs. S.

  Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I'm willing to bear my part of the

  inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried--tried most faithfully, as a

  Christian woman should--to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent

  creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and know

  all their little cares and joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up my head

  again among them, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell such a

  faithful, ex
cellent, confiding creature as poor Tom? I have taught them the

  duties of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife; and how can I

  bear to have this open acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no

  relation? I have talked with Eliza about her boy--her duty to him as a Christian

  mother, to watch over him, pray for him, and bring him up in a Christian way; I

  have told her that one soul is worth more than all the money in the world; and

  how will she believe me when she sees us turn round and sell her child? sell

  him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and soul!

  Mr. S.

  I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily--indeed, I am; and I respect your

  feelings, too, though I don't pretend to share them to their full extent; but I

  tell you now, solemnly, it's of no use--I can't help myself. I didn't mean to

  tell you this Emily; but, in plain words, there is no choice between selling

  these two and selling everything. Either they must go, or all must. Haley has

  come into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off with him

  directly, will take everything before it. I've raked, and scraped, and borrowed,

  and all but begged, and the price of these two was needed to make up the

  balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he agreed to settle

  the matter that way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If you

  feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have all sold?

  Mrs. S.

  This is God's curse on slavery!--a bitter, bitter, most accursed thing!--a curse

  to the master, a curse to the slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything

  good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws like

  ours. I always felt it was--I always thought so when I was a girl--I thought so

  still more after I joined the church; but I thought I could gild it over. I

  thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the condition of

  mine better than freedom--fool that I was!

  Mr. S.

  Why, wife, you are getting to be an Abolitionist, quite.

  Mrs. S.

  Abolitionist! If they knew all I know about slavery they might talk. We don't

  need them to tell us. You know I never thought slavery was right--never felt

  willing to own slaves.

  Mr. S.

  Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men. You remember Mr. B's

  sermon the other Sunday?

  Mrs. S.

  I don't want to hear such sermons. I never wish to hear Mr. B. in our church

  again. Ministers can't help the evil, perhaps,--can't cure it, any more than we

  can,--but defend it!--it always went against my common sense. And I think you

  did n't think much of the sermon, either.

  Mr. S.

  Well, I must say these ministers sometimes carry matters further than we poor

  sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at

  various things, and get used to a deal that is n't the exact thing. But we don't

  quite fancy, when women and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond

  us in matters of either modesty or morals, that's a fact. But now, my dear, I

  trust you see the necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very

  best that circumstances would allow.

  Mrs. S. [Agitatedly.]

  O yes, yes! I have n't any jewelry of any amount; but would not this watch do

  something? It was an expensive one when it was bought. If I could only at least

  save Eliza's child, I would sacrifice anything I have.

  Mr. S.

  I'm sorry, very sorry, Emily,--I'm sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will

  do no good. The fact is, Emily, the thing's done; the bills of sale are already

  signed, and in Haley's hands; and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man

  has had it in his power to ruin us all, and now he is fairly off. If you knew

  the man as I do you'd think that we had had a narrow escape.

  Mrs. S.

  Is he so hard, then?

  Mr. S.

  Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather, a man alive to nothing but

  trade and profit; cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting as death and the

  grave. He'd sell his own mother at a good percentage, not wishing the old woman

  any harm either.

  Mrs. S.

  And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom and Eliza's child?

  Mr. S.

  Well, my dear, the fact is, that this goes rather hard with me; it's a thing I

  hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters, and take possession to-morrow.

  I'm going to get out my horse bright and early, and be off. I can't see Tom,

  that's a fact; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza

  off. Let the thing be done when she is out of sight.

  Mrs. S.

  No, no; I'll be in no sense accomplice or help in this cruel business. I'll go